


Lying on a Marshmallow

by RowboatCop



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Sam Wilson, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson introspection, Sam Wilson's patriotism, Sam's Wilson's faith, Steve Rogers is a literal marshmallow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4543971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, three times Sam Wilson's bed was too soft (and one time it was just right)</p>
<p>Introspective, kinda angsty Sam ficlet with a bit of cuddle fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying on a Marshmallow

1.

They can't even take sleeping bags when they drop this far into Afghanistan, into hostile territory where they can’t risk extra air support. The Falcon packs can’t support much, after all, and bedrolls aren’t light.

There are the lightweight thermal blankets that trap heat, but not much else for comfort.

At first, Sam tries to make do by pillowing his head on his pack and then, when that proves to be too much, on a wadded up shirt. The thing is, though, that having his head on something soft somehow makes it worse.

He’d never have believed that a makeshift bed on the ground can be too soft.

So he stops trying to make the ground soft, decides instead to accept it. It makes things easier, it turns out.

He sleeps on his back, covered with his blanket, and it’s not so bad.

His back adjusts and if you catch him on the right day, he’ll tell you he’s sure sleeping on the ground is better for him anyways.

Even when he’s waking up from nightmares, even when he’s trying to remember why the fuck he’s out here…

This part, it’s not so bad.

  
  


2.

His first night after he gets out, Sam stays in a four star hotel outside Arlington.

And he's been thinking about this for _years_ , about his first night out of the service — really truly out, forever out, never going back — in a nice hotel with a hot shower and room service and cable TV and a soft bed.

It’s the first night of the rest of his life.

The shower is nice at first, but it starts to feel closed in, like every sound echoes almost menacingly. Every time the shower curtain billows in and touches his leg, he jumps and then tries to laugh at himself. It's something he'll get used to, he knows, to real enclosed private showers.

No one ever told him that he’d need to readjust to the very idea of privacy.

Once he’s wrapped in a fluffy white robe, he orders room service and the fish is cooked perfectly (god, but he’s missed well cooked fish, none of that shit that comes in pouches).

He knows it’s perfect.

But he doesn’t know how you go from MREs to buerre blanc, from chewy dried beef to flakey white fish.

And the bed — the bed almost swallows him whole. He sinks into the down feathers like quicksand, so when he snaps awake from a nightmare, he’s struggling to fight his way back to the surface.

Basically, things that are supposed to be good just _aren't,_ and it feels like he’s missing some part of himself, something that makes sense of all of this, and he wonders if he’ll ever find it.

The first night of the rest of his life, he dozes fitfully in the easy chair next to the feathertop king bed, the weather channel playing quietly in the background.

  
  


3.

He started praying again after Riley died, even though he _still_ can’t quite explain why he does it.

Rejecting nightly prayer, that ritual beside his bed, had been part of rejecting his father’s faith. It had felt like an important rebellion at the time, and taking up prayer again definitely isn’t about finding the faith his father had held to.

He’s still not sure whether he believes in God, whether he believes someone is listening, but his father had never demanded that. His father had just wished for him to find _something_ greater than himself to believe in.

(Turns out, it wasn’t his country.)

It’s still something he’s figuring out, is the truth.

There’s comfort in the ritual, though, of folding his hands and thinking about his father, about his wing man, about the reasons he has to keep going.

And it’s not like he could kneel at a bed when his bed was a blanket on the ground most nights, so it’s one of the things about coming home that he has loved — praying by his bed, renewing this ritual that meant so much to his father.

It helps.

But even though he prays at his bed, Sam doesn’t sleep there unless he brings someone home.

(And he’s not a party animal or anything, but he meets people and brings them home often enough. Never anything permanent, never anyone who could put up with everything it means to be a recently discharged vet, but yeah, he does fine.)

It’s a woman who suggests he gets a firmer bed.

He supposes that he should have done it sooner, shouldn’t have taken the better part of a year to get himself something that will help him feel more reintegrated. Because there’s something about sleeping on the floor that makes you feel not quite normal, not quite part of society.

And he’s better at giving advice, sometimes, than taking it, but that’s human nature.

So — he buys himself a new bed.

It’s firm and not too springy, something he’s not going to sink into. And after he prays, he falls asleep on his brand new mattress easily — for the first time since he got back.

When he wakes up at 2am, though, sweating and shaking and reliving one of the worst moments of his life, he can’t get back to sleep. It's still too soft.

So he leaves pillows and blankets on the bed, and instead stretches out on the floor.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

  
  


4.

Sometimes he marvels at himself — at how he could have thought he was done being a soldier, out forever, never going back.

He wonders if it was always a lie he was telling himself.

Or maybe he was just waiting for the right mission, for the realization of why he’s doing it. Now that he’s training up new Avengers, now that he’s fighting missions that he helps design, he doesn’t have days anymore where he wonders why the fuck he’s doing it.

He knows.

And it’s only _partly_ to do with the blond man curled around him in his bunk.

Steve represents something bigger, something worth believing in, but he’s not a demagogue and not the thing itself.

In his sleep, Steve uncurls and slides towards him, so that Sam can stretch himself out, half-on top of his lover's substantial chest.

Captain America is totally a cuddler, which is actually one of the least surprising things about him, once you’ve known him for a half a minute.

It still makes Sam smile, how soft and sweet he is in all the best ways.

Head pillowed on Steve's chest, he breathes and lets his lids drop. It’s not too soft, just the perfect amount of firm, just the perfect amount of arm curved around his back.

He falls asleep, and there are no nightmares.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
